


I Travel Troubled Oceans

by angryhausfrau



Category: Black Sails, RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: F/F, M/M, Organized Crime, Referenced Drug Use, this is a romantic comedy i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:22:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29613549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angryhausfrau/pseuds/angryhausfrau
Summary: In my continuing quest to post like the nichest possible content, here's a Black Sails modern AU kinda set in the RocknRolla universe.For folks who've seen Black Sails but not RocknRolla, the painting is the Urca Gold.For folks who've seen RocknRolla but not Black Sails, Jack and crew are analogous to Cookie and the group, Max is the Tank, Lord Hamilton is Len, Mr. Scott is Archie, Eleanor is the accountant, and Woodes Rogers is the lawyer.All of this is basically an excuse to write domestic Max/Anne and Jack/Charles.
Relationships: "Calico" Jack Rackham/Charles Vane, Anne Bonny/Max
Comments: 11
Kudos: 11





	1. The Plot

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this painting?” Jack asks the room at large.

Anne shrugs.

Charles grunts.

“Maybe Max would want it?”

That's the most sensible suggestion Jack's probably going to get out of the lot of them – and it's coming from the new guy. So that bodes well for this whole fucking venture now doesn't it.

“Wait,” Charles says, finally deigning to actually look at what the fuck Jack's talking about. “Flint didn't want it?”

It is, technically, Flint's painting. Traded to Jack for hash by some street kids and paid to Flint in recompense for connecting him with that party full of poncy coke fiends with more money than burst capillaries.

Anne gives a derisive snort. “Nah, he fucked off to America to live in romantic poverty with his boy toy.”

Though given that said boy toy is heir to the Hamilton fortune, their romantic poverty is more likely to involve a stately home in Greenville or Chapel Hill or something than actual poverty of the variety he or Anne or Chaz are familiar with.

“Well I don't give a fuck what you do with it, Jack. Just get it out of here. I don't want any more Spaniards poking around. Or Russians. Or whoever the fuck they were. They fucking trashed the place.”

“Yes, of course, Charles. You're absolutely right. They simply ruined the whole crack den vibe we've got going on here. I'll make certain we get our interior decorating straightened out first priority.”

“Fuck you, Jack.”

Charles wishes.

“Well, if I'm actually giving it to Max, Anne had better be the one to deliver it.” Since Max doesn't like Jack, for _some_ reason. And really, really likes Anne for completely obvious reasons.

“Fine,” Anne grits out. As if getting eaten out in the back of a Range Rover is really fucking up her social calendar. “But you're helping me carry it all the way to the fucking West End.”

Wonderful. Now Jack gets to stand outside in the cold while Anne gets eaten out in the back of a Range Rover.

“Fine.”

Jack shrugs on his warmest coat. Maybe he can make a little dosh off the snobby theater patrons. The rich artsy fucks – or those who style themselves that way, anyway – always have a habit or two to indulge.

But surprisingly, Jack gets pulled into the back of Max's car right along with Anne and the painting. And he doubts it's for another ill-considered threesome. Not with the way Max actually deigned to pause whatever boring regency-era drama she's got on. No, she wants to talk business.

Exactly what business that is becomes apparent when Mr. Scott joins them.

“You want the money,” Jack blurts out.

Max nods.

“And you want to use my crew to get it.”

Another nod.

“Fuck no. I'm not going against Eleanor and Woodes Rogers. Not for love or money.” He gets up to leave, gesturing Anne to follow. She's the love, he's the money.

Mr. Scott speaks up. “He owes me.” His tone is level, but Jack can read the vehemence behind it. “They all owe me.”

And Jack doesn't have to be a genius to guess what he means.

“He sent you away for that four stretch. Just like he sent Flint and Silver and who knows how many others.”

Like Charles. Oh, fuck, Charles. Who'd gone away on a two stretch on a job that shouldn't have been anything but a quick in and out. But somehow London's finest had been there, waiting, handcuffs just ready to snap around his wrists.

“That man owned me, body and soul.” And Mr. Scott's anger has gone beyond vehement to downright poisonous, though he's still speaking in that same even tone. “But he thought I was getting greedy. Getting _uppity_. So he sent me away, to teach me a lesson.”

Like he was some errant school boy and Lord Hamilton his headmaster. Oh, he'd always styled himself as such, the pompous prick. Mr. Scott takes a breath.

“So yes, I want the fucking money.”

Fair enough, in Jack's estimation. But that still doesn't explain why he's the one who has to go get it.

“Surely there are enough remnants of Flint's old crew to con into this suicide mission.” Billy Bones comes to mind. He's pretty sure either Eleanor or Woodes Rogers would be susceptible.

“Flint's gone,” Max supplies. “Bones turned traitor. And Silver paid me out the ass to help him disappear. Last I'd heard, he ran away up North to open a pub with Madi.”

So that's his share disappeared, then. No wonder Max is going straight to the source.

Anne snorts. “Wonder how long that honeymoon's going to last.”

Max smiles, and it's not a very nice expression. “Well, either they'll reconcile or Madi will be back here in a week with a big fat insurance payment on the pub that mysteriously burned down – and Silver will be nowhere to be found.”

Mr. Scott smiles proudly. Madi truly is her mother's daughter.

“Ok, ok. You're short on options. But that still doesn't explain why you'd come to me.” Jacks been out of that particular game since Charles went away. And sure, he's built himself a tidy little empire here, dealing drugs to the rich idiots who want them. But that doesn't mean he's ready to get back in the saddle – and certainly not with anything on the scale Max is talking about.

Max looks uncomfortable, which isn't an expression Jack's used to seeing on her. “It needs to happen quickly and with discretion.”

And there isn't anyone else she trusts with this, Jack realizes. Well, damn. Now he's got to do it – Max owing him a favor is worth thrice his weight in cold hard cash.

“Why the time limit?” Anne asks.

An excellent question. “The Eleanor I know doesn't need the money. She probably just took it because she got bored of her gilded little cage.” She'll want to keep it around for a while, as a trophy if nothing else.

“Eleanor doesn't need the money,” Max says with a grin that spells nothing but misfortune for her victims, “but Woodes Rogers is another story entirely.”

“I thought he was loaded,” Jack interjects. “Surely blow and rent boys can't run him _that_ much.” Though if he holds parties like the one Jack had attended on a regular basis – that might actually start draining the old trust fund. But even so, he and Eleanor both work the kind of rich people jobs that amount to doing fuck all and being paid out the ass for it. So he doesn't think that's quite it.

Mr. Scott smiles, and it's not a very warm expression. “Apparently Mr. Rogers has something of a gambling problem. He's run up significant debts with some international syndicates – including our friends the Spanish.”

“And now that his patron Lord Hamilton is out of the picture,” Max continues, “he's left with wolves at the door. The cash is as good as gone by the end of the week.”

“Well shit,” Anne says.

A sentiment Jack wholeheartedly endorses.

“Even if I had an entire week to plan this venture, I couldn't guarantee success. And all you're giving me is three days! How the hell am I supposed to pull this off, Max?”

Max smiles. “Charles is back in town, isn't he?”

“Yes,” Jack says tightly.

“That's your way in.”

“Now I know you're joking.”

Max raises one delicate eyebrow in question.

“Charles and Eleanor had a rather... explosive falling out right before he went away. Surely _you_ heard about it. There's no way in hell he's our way in – she'll slam the door right in his face.”

“The thing about Eleanor, Jack, is that she loves to burn bridges. But once she's burned them, she inevitably finds herself looking back across the water to the other side. And finds she rather misses what she had when she was there.”

And isn't that just a terrible insight into Max and Eleanor's former relationship. Jack shudders. He's never going to bitch about Max being with Anne again.

Probably.

“Ok,” Anne says. “So Eleanor still has the hots for Chuck and she'll fuck him just cuz of that.”

“Well, not just because of that,” Max interjects. “She'll fuck him because she likes to have her cake and eat it too.”

Max waves an airy hand around the group assembled.

“We are all well aware of how things ended between her and Charles. And she hates to lose face above all else. Her fucking Charles and then throwing him over is her rewriting the breakup – getting to play the all powerful king and him the pitiful subject, to be used and thrown away on a whim.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Fine,” Anne interrupts, annoyed. “Eleanor's going to play weird sex mind-games with him instead. How does this help us get the money?”

“Eleanor's the one who'd smell a rat,” Jack says. “Woodes Rogers isn't exactly the sharpest or most conniving knife in the drawer. He'd let us right in on, on the pretense of another party. We sell to him and his friends again and they're all too off their heads and sex crazy to bother wondering where we've run off to after.”

“The rich have an amazing ability to overlook the “help” once they've stopped making themselves useful,” Mr. Scott adds.

“Right, yes.” Jack nods decisively as a plan forms. “And with Eleanor otherwise occupied, we'd have run of the whole house. Plenty of time to snoop around and find the money. And if we bring a travel case for the drugs – we load up the cash and just walk out as if nothing ever happened.”

“And as luck would have it,” Mr. Scott interjects, “they plan on throwing a party this very Wednesday evening – in celebration of Miss Guthrie's birthday.”

A plan formed, Jack and the others all nod in unison. They're going to get that fucking cash.

Although convincing Charles to go along with it might be a little difficult.


	2. The Heist

Charles was, in fact, difficult to persuade of the plan. Sure, he wants money just about as much as any of the rest of the crew. But he's also pretty fucking pissed at Eleanor Guthrie.

Although the prospect of getting one over on her – and ruining another one of the people responsible for sending him to jail _and_ getting filthy rich in the process – is a strong incentive. And Jack's always been good with words. Persuasive, one might say. Charles is stubbly, slightly recalcitrant putty in his hands.

So they all troop down to the nearest YMCA so Charles can take a shower. And Anne shoplifts him some slightly more upscale slutty clothes, because God forbid the man ever actually wear a shirt. But he looks like a halfway respectable stripogram by the time he shows up to Eleanor's little birthday party – a fashionable two hours late so the party's in full swing and he doesn't look _desperate._ Though Eleanor will probably still read him that way. A pathetic sad sack crawling back to her on bended knee, ready to beg forgiveness and willing to do anything to get back in her good graces now that his former crew is a wreck and Flint's run off to America.

Eleanor thinks she's got Charles right where she wants him – under her two-thousand dollar heels. But that doesn't mean it's not a scene worthy of the fucking Baftas when she sees him come through the door.

Jack and Anne and the new guy are posted up in the kitchen, dealing to all the posh little fucks looking for a bit of white gold to get the party started right. Just killing time until Charles makes his move and he and Eleanor head to the bedroom.

And minimalist open plan living being in fashion, even in these old Victorian piles, they can hear every fucking word of the happy little reunion from a whole half a house away.

“Why Charles,” Eleanor practically purrs – and it's the purr of a Jaguar, lethal and expensive. “Whatever are you doing here.”

It's not a question.

Charles forces himself to look down at his feet. As if he's weak. As if he's _ashamed_.

“Eleanor.” He makes it sound anguished instead of angry. “I had a lot of time to think while I was away.”

Because Eleanor and her lot threw him away. And who knew Chaz was such a good actor? There's none of the violent, simmering fury Jack knows he feels over the betrayal. His tone is contrite and he must look suitably groveling, because Eleanor lets him continue.

“I started thinking about what was important – what was good in my life.” Namely her. And what he'd do to get her back. Though that goes unsaid, because there's such a thing as laying it on too thick, even for Eleanor fucking Guthrie.

And they – Jack, mostly Jack, who'd coached Charles through the whole interaction - must have struck just the right balance of pathetic groveling and virile masculinity with that little performance, because Eleanor says, “Why don't we discuss this somewhere more private, Charles?”

A few minutes later, Jack gets a surreptitious eggplant emoji from Charles's burner phone – the prearranged signal that he's successfully convinced Eleanor to sleep with him and that they're free to comb the house. Jack sends a winky face in response and then he, Anne, and the new guy split up to search for the cash.

Knowing Charles – and Eleanor – they'll probably be tied up for a while. Charles almost definitely literally. But that doesn't mean they can dawdle.

Anne takes to rifling through the bedrooms, disturbing several couples – and more – in the throws of passion. But she's always been good at intimidating idiots to stay out of her way – and so obviously on a mission that they don't do more than voice a few token protests. Plus, she's good enough at what she does – and they're so wrapped up in their drugged out fucking – that she's in and out before some of the participants even notice she's there. But, as Jack learns from her regular updates of terse “NO” and red “X” texts, she has no luck finding the cash.

Jack hadn't really expected Eleanor or Woodes Rogers to keep the cash in a random bedroom, where any horny houseguest could stumble upon it. So that just leaves the master suite – empty, what with Eleanor having taken Charles to the room that apparently serves as her bedroom cum sex dungeon, if Max's deeply - horrifyingly deeply - detailed description is to be believed. (Privately, Jack thinks Eleanor may have gotten just a little bit too invested in the whole Fifty Shades trend. But bored horny women are bored horny women, regardless of bank account balance, apparently.)

And Woodes Rogers is otherwise occupied downstairs, courtesy of the new guy, who's apparently caught his eye and is being rather badly flirted at, if the increasingly frantic texts Jack keeps getting are any indication. Jack feels bad, he really does – ok, not _that_ bad, he'd do the same thing on purpose if Woodes Rogers was into queens. But he likes a little bit of rough - not that Jack can blame him – and the new guy seems to be doing it for him, even if he's got a pretty boy face. And this is probably the best chance they're going to get of having the house to themselves for the search. So he tells New Guy to stick it out and if Woodes Rogers starts getting too sleezy to make a break for it. They'll all meet at the rendezvous point at the kebab shop in the West End anyway, it doesn't matter if they don't all go together.

Plus, it'll help take the heat off if they just look like regular party goers instead of co-conspirators in a heist.

But Jack doesn't have a lot of extra time or attention to spare for New Guy's plight. Because Anne's struck out in the master bedroom, except for some rather tasteless but presumably expensive jewelry. And Jack's searched the study - a big, stupidly imposing room that practically screams “compensating” - and he's come up with zilch. A fucking goose egg, outside of a moving bookcase that hides a humidor. Probably Eleanor's.

So he moves on to the library, the last place the cash could reasonably be without them having to try and search the fucking basement.

It's probably the least used room in the house. Because sure, Woodes Rogers is a lawyer of some description and Eleanor an accountant. But the paraphernalia for that kind of stuff gets kept in blinding glass and steel corporate offices. _This_ room is for impressing the impressionable. And it's absolutely stuffed to the fucking rafters with first editions of classics and entire sets of encyclopedias that Jack would bet real money have never even been opened by their current owners.

There are also several oil paintings in heavy gilt frames – perfect for hiding a wall safe. And if that doesn't reveal anything, there's always the horrifically overbearing desk situated in pride of place in front of the enormous bay windows. Jack can just see Eleanor there, sitting in the high backed antique chair like it was a throne, dispensing her version of mercy on groveling penitents.

Jack wonders if she ever made Max fuck her in that chair. That feels like something she'd be into.

And with that _lovely_ thought, Jack turns to search the nearest painting – a drab toned portrait of a man who is presumably one of Woodes Rogers's antecedents. Blugh. But, heinous crimes committed during his life or no, he isn't the final resting place for stolen goods.

Jack turns to the next painting and the next with no more success. The final painting – one of hounds on the hunt – doesn't reveal the cash, but it does reveal some rather racy photographs of Eleanor and one of her previous lovers (neither Max nor Charles, so Jack doesn't remove them) in what is apparently Woodes Rogers's pathetic attempts at a black mail collection on his wife. It's quite sad really, so Jack just takes a snap of it for Anne – who'll undoubtedly show it to Max, who'll get a kick out of it - and moves on to the desk.

There, he strikes gold. Or cash, really. There's a hidden compartment in the bottom of the desk drawer with a lock on it – as if that could stop Jack. Or anyone with better fine motor skills than a toddler. It only takes him a few minutes and an unbent paper clip to open the catch.

And there lays the cash.

Jack signals Anne and the new guy to come help, since there's approximately a metric fuckton of it. Someone who's not Jack is going to have to practically crawl inside the desk to get it all. But they've found it, finally.

Thank Christ.

Jack starts laying bundles of cash into the bottom of his traveling case – one of those hard-sided suitcases that businessmen so love to use. And he's honestly not sure if that's going to be enough. But fortunately, the new guy had the foresight to bring a ratty backpack along and between the two bags and the three of their pockets, they get it all stowed away.

Jack texts Charles a Jolly Roger to let him know he can wrap things up with Eleanor and all that's left now is to get away clean.

Which is almost easier done than said. They walk out the door, times staggered enough that it doesn't look like they're all leaving together, and no one notices a thing. It's all very anti-climactic, honestly. The movies always make this part seem so exciting – car chases and shoot outs and etcetera. But they just walk right out the front door, completely invisible to the partiers still inside the house.

Jack leaves last, so he's only about a half block away when Charles finishes their little distraction off with a bang. They'd planned it all out – how to make it look like Eleanor had the upper hand in the breakup this time, so she wouldn't look too hard at the evening and link the theft back to Jack or Anne. How to make sure that Eleanor was left physically and emotionally satisfied enough that she never seeks Charles out for another night of fun. How to make her feel in charge and in control and like she's throwing Charles over, instead of them conning her.

And frankly, the bits Jack can hear are a masterstroke. Charles is pathetic and groveling in a way that is genuinely unappealing – but that apparently gets Eleanor's rocks off, because she's got the most self-satisfied fucking smirk on face, the one he imagines she wore the entire time Charles was in her bed. And Eleanor stands at the top of the stairs, framed by the open doorway, lauding her _everything about herself_ over Charles as he begs her to take him back. Which she does not deign to do at all.

All the other party goers have gathered around to witness the carnage and Eleanor's not even pretending to feel sorry about making such a scene. This – this is what she's been looking for ever since Charles gave her the boot – coincidentally right before he went away on that two stretch. And she's milking her ability to get one over him in that same way for all it's fucking worth.

“We're done, Charles.”

She says it with the cold finality of a vault door swinging shut. And she sweeps back into the house, surrounded by the ranks of simpering sycophants. Leaving Charles curled into himself on the cold pavement.


	3. The Celebration

After a suitable interval, and when he's sure everyone has gone back inside to the drugs and debauchery, Jack wanders over to where Charles is still laying on the stoop of Eleanor's door.

His shoulders are shaking and his face is pressed into his hands. At first, Jack thinks that he's crying – and he begins to wonder if this was such a good plan after all. If Charles doesn't still harbor feelings for Eleanor and this has torn open the wound.

But he gets closer and realizes that Charles is _laughing_.

Big, silent, shoulder-shaking bouts of laughter. It might edge slightly into the hysterical, but Jack puts a consoling (or at least it will be read that way by anyone who may happen to glance out the window) hand on Charles's shoulder and he settles down enough to peel himself off the pavement and sit up.

“Fucking glad that's over with,” Charles says.

“You did a masterful job, Charles.” Jack holds out a hand to him, ready to help him to his feet. “Perhaps you ought to consider a career in the theater.”

Charles snorts derisively but takes Jacks hand and Jack hauls him up to standing – a difficult feat given how much larger Charles is than him, but Jack's had plenty of practice hauling Charles out of the gutter. And that usually involves far less assistance from Charles himself, if not active resistance. This Charles practically springs to his feet before turning to face the house.

“Anne and the new guy get out ok?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, and holds his phone up for Charles to see. Anne has texted him a kebab emoji and a question mark. “They're getting kebabs.”

Charles nods. Spits on Eleanor's doorstep. Says, “Let's go.”

So Jack texts Anne a thumbs up and he and Charles head off to dinner and a cool thirty million in cash.

* * *

They get there pretty much right as Max's car pulls up – with Mr. Scott also in the back seat. And Anne and the new guy rush out, laden with bags of takeaway and the cash.

“Good timing, Jack. Was afraid we'd have to go hunt you down.” Anne grins, sharp and sincere. Glad they all made it out all right.

And Jack is too, if he's being honest. They'd willingly entered the dragon's den – and of course they'd planned everything best they could. But no plan survives contact with the enemy and all that.

But they'd made it out with life and limb and money. Money he's sure Max and Mr. Scott are eager to see for themselves once they get out of here.

Jack clambers into the back of the Range Rover and holds out his hands for the cash. Anne passes him the food first, so it's easy to see what her priorities are. But Charles climbs in after it with the suitcase and the new guy follows with the backpack and then Anne's climbing in after and then they're away – whisked off to wherever Max wants to take them.

Which is apparently a poncy hotel downtown. And she's booked a suite of rooms on the top floor, so they won't be disturbed during the all important money counting and divvying out. A far cry from how Jack's used to doing it, which is hurriedly and in a dark alley that reeks of piss. But he supposes they've hit the big time now – and he's certainly not complaining about the change in circumstances.

Neither is Anne, who kicks off her boots and immediately plops face down on the ridiculously large bed in the Master bedroom. Which is so plush, she sinks several inches into the duvet. Jack can't wait to try it himself, but business first.

Max might give Anne an awful lot of leeway, but Jack knows he'll get none. So he starts unloading the suitcase onto the table in the sort of dining area of the suite. And the new guy follows suit and unpacks his backpack. And by the time they're finished with that, Anne has gotten up and wandered over to the giant pile of money and started unloading her pockets along with Jack and New Guy.

Max grins a sharp, self-satisfied smile at the stacks of cash. One that Mr. Scott echoes, although his version is slightly less frightening. But only slightly.

Jack watches as Max counts the money. Because it's not that he doesn't trust her. But he doesn't trust her.

And she clearly feels the same way – watching Jack just as closely when it's his turn to recount. But they both come up with the same number (astronomical) and it doesn't appear that there's been any attempts at shenanigans. So Jack lets Max count out Mr. Scott's share, which he recounts and then promptly disappears with, leaving the five of them alone in the hotel room.

The last time Jack was in a hotel room with Max and Anne, they'd had a pretty terrible threesome. Eager to avoid any additional reminiscences about that night, Jack dives into counting out Max's share.

Given that she's already received an absolute fortune from Flint to disappear off to America with the former Lord Hamilton's formerly disgraced son and another, slightly smaller fortune from Silver to disappear up North with Madi, she's sitting pretty. Add in Jack's gift of Flint's painting and she's a good way towards owning the entire street. So she'd been willing to forgo her rightful share in exchange for a smaller finder's fee and the promise that, if this job was a success, Jack would continue working for her.

He'd initially been against the idea – working for your partner's girlfriend mixes love and money in a way he isn't particularly comfortable with. But, on the other hand, with Lord Hamilton and now Eleanor and Woodes Rogers out of the picture, Max is about the only major player left in the game. And Jack would much rather be under her protection than trying to carve out a niche for himself on the streets she owns.

So Jack counts out a meager five percent for her – still an absolute boatload of cash, but nowhere near her rightful share – waves her out the door, and gets down to the serious business of getting drunk on the bottles of high-end champagne Anne and Charles ordered up to the room while he was otherwise engaged.

It's somewhere between their second and third bottle, kebabs long demolished and the four of them lounging drunkenly – Anne upside down with her head hanging off the side of the bed – that New Guy starts bitching about Woodes Rogers's pitiful attempts at flirting.

“It's not that I really mind being flirted with so much,” he says. “Not that I would have gone to bed with him or anything. It's just that he was so terrible at it.” New Guy flops over next to Anne. “Like, I just think that if I'm going to be drunkenly flirted with by a guy – he should at least do a convincing job of it.”

Anne nods sympathetically, still upside down.

Jack wonders if he didn't make a mistake by letting New Guy join their little gang once Lord Hamilton's son dropped him to run off with flint. This is edging a little too close to casual homophobia for comfort.

“I mean, I'm not even a guy!” New Guy? says.

Ok, so maybe not.

“And I tried to tell him that I was a woman, but he wouldn't listen to a word I said. Just kept repeating how rich and cool and good in bed he was, as if that would change my mind after the first five times he said it!”

“Wait,” Jack says, not exactly firing on all cylinders at the moment, “you're not a guy?”

New Girl crosses her arms over her chest and looks pissed off. “No!”

“You're not by any chance a lesbian are you?” Jack asks nervously.

Now she's definitely pissed off. “So what if I am? Are you going to tell me that  _you_ of all people are homophobic?”

Jack would attempt to look affronted, but he's too drunk at this point to make it convincing. “Never, darling. It's just,” and this is embarrassing, “all of my friends turn out to be lesbians.”

Anne. Max, although maybe friend isn't the right word. Business associate. Probably others that Jack can't remember right now. Because he's got to have more than three friends, right?

Jack peers suspiciously at Charles. “You're not a lesbian are you Chaz?”

“Don't think so,” Charles replies after a minute of self-reflection. “And I told you you should go down the pub during some sort of sporting event. Buy a round. Make some friends that way.”

“I tried that,” Jack bemoans. “Attached myself to the mascest group of football hooligans I could find. But they all turned out to be lesbians too.”

“I think it's the mullet,” Anne interjects. She's deigned to sit upright for this important conversation and she's blinking drunkenly at Jack – or his hair, it's hard to tell which.

“That's true,” New Girl pipes up. “It's not the eighties anymore – the only people who still have mullets are lesbians and stupid fucks who live in Camden.”

“And American ice hockey players,” Jack adds, just to be difficult.

“Maybe you should move to Camden to be a stupid fuck,” Anne suggests. “At least then you'd fit in.”

Jack flips her off.

“And nobody'd believe you were an American ice hockey player,” Chaz adds.

Jack flips him off too.

“Maybe _you're_ secretly a lesbian instead of Charles” is New Girl's contribution.

Ah, no. Most certainly not. He'd done enough anxious self-reflection as a teen to know  _that_ much.

“I'm bored of this conversation,” Charles says. “And there's a Jacuzzi in the bathroom.” He stands and takes off his pants.

Jack, tired of being made fun of, flounces off after him, leaving Anne and New Girl to their own drunken, giggly devices.


	4. The Aftermath

Jack wakes up to an unfamiliar bed and an egregious hangover – a state of being he'd gotten used to over the years, although this is certainly the nicest unfamiliar bed he's ever woken up in. He still needs a cup of coffee and an aspirin more than just about any fix he's ever tried, though.

Charles and Anne are still sleeping but New Girl – who's name is actually Mary, apparently – is doing the same zombie impersonation as Jack. And between the two of them, they figure out how to use the fancy espresso machine in the kitchenette and even manage to order room service. Which is a bit of a letdown, if Jack's being honest.

He wants nothing more than the greasiest packet of chips he can lay his grubby hands on. But posh hotels don't have that sort of thing on the menu, so he makes due with a lobster omelet and potato croquettes. Which at least have potato in the name, so maybe they'll do the trick.

Anne and Charles emerge from various bedrooms, lured by the smell of food no doubt, so they all sit down to eat together. And naturally, the topic of what to do with all their fucking cash comes up.

Jack has thought about it a good bit over the past few days he'd known of its existence. Idle daydreams, mostly – born more out of a sense of whimsy than any particular belief they'd ever happen. But now that he's actually got the cash, visions of caviar smorgasbords and Mediterranean cruises feel hollow.

Because this is the score of a lifetime. Get out of the game for good kind of money. But he can't do that, because he's promised Max he'd be at her beck and call. And no one double-crosses Max.

Still, they ought to lay low for a while before embarking on any new jobs. Eleanor and Woodes Rogers are sure to kick up a fuss when they realize the money is missing – and Eleanor realizes that Woodes Rogers owes an ungodly amount to some very unsavory individuals. So really, what they ought to do is return to the Boneyard and keep their heads down until the impending shitstorm blows over.

But their squat is in even more disrepair than usual, thanks to the Spaniards. And Jack really, really doesn't want to go back there, ever again. And they have the money to afford real estate – even in London - to make sure they don't have to.

“What would you think of buying a house?” Jack asks, interrupting an argument between Anne and Charles over what ridiculously expensive and incredibly dangerous knives they should buy.

“Why the fuck would we want to do that, Jack?”

Charles has made his position on owning anything other than the shirt on his back – not that he even bothers with that most of the time – quite clear over the years.

It makes you weak. It makes you soft. It makes you easy to control.

And sure, Jack knows enough about the way Charles grew up to understand where he's coming from, even if he doesn't agree. But Jack will be damned if he continues to “live” in an unheated, rat infested shit hole full of passed out junkies.

“I don't know, Charles. Maybe because we can afford it. We can afford to buy the house outright and be beholden to nobody. Have a place of our own, where no one can interfere or bother us.”

Jack takes a breath. And he can see how Anne's nodding her agreement. She just wants to be safe – that's all she's ever wanted. To be safe and free. And if Jack pulling at that part of her gets him what he wants, he'll do it.

But Charles still isn't swayed. So he tries another tack.

“How about the fact that we have a role to play now as Max's crew? You think we can entertain the kind of clients she needs us to rob from – people like Eleanor and Woodes Rogers – in the Boneyard?” Jack snorts. “Because they may say they like a bit of rough, but that would be several steps too far, don't you think Chaz?”

And he could say more, here. Ask Charles how many times he'd brought Eleanor back to the Boneyard to fuck. Ask Charles if she'd seen him at his lowest – lost to the pipe and covered in his own vomit – and if she'd fucked him then.

But that's too cruel, even for Jack, who's found, over the years, that he'll do almost anything to pull himself out of the gutter he'd been born into.

Not this, though. Not to Charles.

He seems to hear the unvoiced questions regardless. Nods at Jack in grudging acceptance of the plan. And disappears back into the bedroom.

Anne glares at him.

“What?” he asks, defensive. “You agree with me.”

Anne shrugs. Tips her head towards the closed bedroom door.

“Fine,” Jack huffs. And he stomps off to go apologize to Charles. Anne won't give him a minute of peace otherwise.

Jack knocks gently on the doorframe. Charles grunts, but it's the kind of grunt that's welcoming – or at least inquisitive - and not the kind that means he's going to rip Jack's liver out through his anus. So Jack opens the door.

Charles is sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

Jack sits down next to him.

“I'm sorry Charles.” He breathes out a sigh. “I know you don't like being settled – feeling bound to someplace. Or someone.” Jack places a consoling hand on Charles's shoulder. “But this is really the best course of action.”

Charles shrugs the hand – and the condescension - off. “Fuck you, Jack.”

He lifts his head so he's looking Jack right in the eye. “You think I don't know that this is what's best? You think I don't _know_?”

Jack's shocked speechless by his vehemence, mouth gaping in surprise. Good.

“I went away for two years – _two years_ Jack. And I come back and you're the one running the crew. And now we're taking orders from _Max_ of all people.” Charles snorts. “Shit's all so different, now. And I don't know that I see my place in this crew – in this life anymore. I'm scared shitless, Jack.”

Scared that he'll end up like Teach – the closest thing he ever had to a father out on the streets. Washed up and useless. Alone. Without a legacy. Waiting to die.

But he'll be damned if he's going to let that happen. And if living in a house and taking jobs for Max is how he survives – how he stays with his crew. He'll do it.

Jack's still gaping unattractively at Charles. And ordinarily, he'd take pride in having shut him up. But he's been closer to honest than he's been in a long time – and it's not exactly comfortable.

“If you tell anyone _any_ of this – including Anne – I will kill you slow. You understand?”

Jack nods, eyes wide.

Charles nods brusquely and stands up. By his estimation, the matter's closed.

He strides out into the main room, Jack following at his heels.

Anne looks up expectantly. And he can still rally them, still hold their attention and respect. Even if Jack's the one at the helm now.

“So,” Charles says, serious. “Are we moving to Camden so Jack can blend in with all the other stupid fucks?”


	5. In Which Jack Attempts to Become a Semi-Respectable Member of Polite Society and Charles Succeeds in Becoming a Completely Disreputable Trophy Boyfriend

Max and Mr. Scott – probably mostly Mr. Scott, who still has his finger on the pulse of London real estate in a way that's almost frighteningly omniscient - somehow land Jack and company a lovely house that's been subjected to a series of absolutely atrocious renovations and sat empty since the late nineties. So Charles and Anne spend the first few weeks of laying low pulling out all of the hideous carpeting and knocking down the terrible wood paneling – and in one case, an entire (non load-bearing) wall, which they attack with sledge hammers and far, far too much glee. And Mary, bless her, spends the week sweeping and scrubbing and peeling wall paper. Until the house sits an empty shell, stripped down to the stately bones that lay beneath the shag carpeting and twee plasterwork.

Jack spends _his_ weeks learning to play tennis.

He hadn't had much chance to learn growing up, being an impoverished guttersnipe and all, so he's got a lot of ground to catch up. Because, see, the counselor – the one who'd sided with the Spanish over Lord Hamilton, allowing for his final downfall, the one who controls all of London's planning permission, the one Max needs an in with. He absolutely adores tennis.

He adores it with all the fervor of a middle class man who'd seen it as _the_ gentleman's game growing up. And now that he's a gentleman – by wealth and importance, if not by birth, which still stings him, bitterly, and is the reason for his overcompensation – then by God, he's going to play tennis.

And since Jack's first job from Max is to get the counselor on side, he's got to learn to play tennis too. Well enough that whatever skill level the counselor actually has, Jack can play to it, keep the games close. Just barely beat the counselor or just barely lose, but keep it close enough that he keeps coming back for more. Which takes considerably more skill than simply learning the game and playing to the best of his ability.

So Jack practices and practices and practices, all with the help of a draconian ex-professional instructor Max found for him at a mid-level club nowhere near where the counselor plays for the entire month his house is torn down around his ears.

Meanwhile, in the real world, Eleanor and Woodes Rogers's world is coming down around their ears as well. Anne pays Max enough visits that she's always flush with the latest gossip – the sort of thing that goes beyond the polite, antiseptic description that has been in the papers. And the long and short of it is that Woodes Rogers is ruined. Fired from his job, disowned from his family, and, most importantly, the rich person version of penniless.

So he just doesn't have any resources to come after them, if he even suspected anything. And he'll be lucky if he doesn't end up in jail because apparently Eleanor's creative approach to accounting has been helping him evade taxes for a good long while as well. And now that he's too poor to be protected – and his reputation too tarnished – he's looking at the possibility of a five stretch.

Eleanor will probably avoid seeing the inside of a cell, mores the pity. She's too cunning to be taken down with her husband. But her social capital is destroyed, along with a good portion of her money, used to bail out Woodes Rogers with the various criminal elements he was indebted to. And with this new revelation of her less than legal exploits, it means that she's been let go from her position as well – not because she'd done anything they hadn't asked her to do for them, of course. But because they can't bear to have even a whiff of scandal or people might stop trusting in the sanctity of the British financial system. And we can't be having that.

At any rate, all of this means that Jack is able to move in the open again, which is good because he needs to start establishing himself as a quasi-legitimate member of polite society sooner rather than later. So that second month, in addition to playing tennis, Jack starts an Instagram account detailing the renovations on his house.

There's pictures of Jack choosing furniture and wallpaper and fabric swatches and rugs. There's pictures of the interior of the house, featuring Anne as Jack's PA, scowling and holding a clipboard menacingly. And Charles appears frequently as Jack's muse/boytoy, posed artfully shirtless and oiled up and muscular.

Mary, as his new social media manager, has had a lot of good ideas about how to sell Jack as a flirty and flighty and nearly terminally stupid fashion designer and she and Jack and Max have worked hard to make him appear harmless. Someone with money and influence but who was too wrapped up in pretty clothes and pretty boys to ever use it. Someone who could approach the counselor – and offer him valuable access into the upper echelons of society – without appearing threatening to him like Lord Hamilton had been.

And the bitch of it is is that it works.

Jack applies for and gets a membership to the councilor's exclusive health club – and the approval committee explicitly comments on the settee he'd had reupholstered in yellow silk for the upstairs sitting room in his induction hearing, so at least _someone's_ looking at his Instagram. And he begins playing tennis there, familiarizing himself with the layout and the staff and the other patrons. So he can just ever so coincidentally grab the court opposite Councilor Featherstone during his weekly Saturday morning game.

They don't talk much during the game itself, but afterwards. Afterwards...

There's the usual handshakes and good games and shows of good sportsmanship from both sides. Jack had just narrowly, ever so narrowly, eked out a victory. But the councilor had more than made him work for it.

So Jack gets invited to a rematch next week – a rematch he'll make sure the councilor wins, just as narrowly. Because you've got to leave them wanting. You've got to leave them hungry for it. And they won't be if they win the first time. But they'll give up if they don't win the second and third. So you've got to walk that fine line of wins and losses until the whole thing's a habit and they couldn't walk away even if they wanted to.

That's what made Jack such a success as a pusher – not his product, but his approach. His way of knowing people. And the councilor is so very eager to be known.

Certainly he starts off with polite inquiries into how Jack's settling into London. Questions about the house and the neighborhood and the progress of the renovation.

But Jack is quick to talk about how difficult he's finding London to navigate, compared to the Bahamas, where they've decided he'll be from. How stand-offish people can be. How it feels like they snub him every time they hear him speak, or they find out that he doesn't know so-and-so from such-and-such school.

Oh, he doesn't come out and complain about it or anything. Just hints at it. Plants little seeds for Counselor Featherstone's own complaints to blossom forth.

And he has complaints aplenty. How it's such an Old School Chums crowd. How many incompetent idiots run various departments based on legacy rather than any actual ability. How put upon Featherstone is by all of them. How they all ask him for favors and expect to give nothing in return – because he should be overjoyed they're even deigning to talk to him and why wouldn't he want to do things for them, everyone wants to do things for them.

And Jack makes the appropriate noises of understanding and commiseration without actually volunteering very much about himself. Because that's the other half of the sell. Make the mark think that you're their friend. That they know you as well as they know themselves so they'll spill all the dark – or in Featherstone's case, mildly frustrated – parts of their soul. Make yourself their confidant, the one they can always turn to, because you think just alike on all the important points. So if you ever disagree, well, it must be my dear friend Jack in the right, he would never steer me wrong.

Of course, you can't do it all at once. It has to be done slowly and carefully, so that the mark never cottons on. But, as born out by Jack shaking Councilor Featherstone's sweaty hand and promising same time next week, he's certainly made a start on it. So that ought to make Max happy.

Jack wipes the sweat from his brow with an obscenely high threadcount towel provided by the club and goes off to assess Charles's progress on the other half of Max's request. Because while Jack has been honing his tennis game and scoping out the club, Charles has been there as well, spending mornings in the gym and afternoons sunbathing by the pool in the smallest bathing suit they'll allow him to wear. Which is quite small indeed. And it's therefore no surprise that Charles has accrued rather a crowd of rich bored socialites around his little flotilla of deck chairs, drawn like moths to a sexy, sexy flame.

Charles just dangerous enough to be interesting. But safe, because he's taken and (presumably) gay. Just a sexy backdrop to their boring, catty lives. Able to blend right into the scenery.

Meanwhile, Charles listens to - and dutifully recounts to Max – all the idle gossip he becomes privy to due to his position as living ornament. Because, to Max, information is worth its weight in gold. And you wouldn't believe what kind of things you can overhear simply by being ignorable.

Plus, Jack thinks as he sets his bag down next to Charles's deck chair and he looks up at Jack from behind his knock-off Coach sunglasses, Charles is having far, far too much fun playing Jack's boyfriend.

As evidenced by him sprawling his thighs even more obscenely open and practically purring, “Hello, darling.”

An obscene mockery of Jack's own favored greeting. And a slight that will _not_ stand.

Jack kneels between Charles's spread legs. “Hello yourself, Chaz.” Jack tilts his chin up for a brief peck on the lips. “Have a good day, dear?”

Charles further escalates things by pulling Jack down onto his lap and nuzzling against his ear. “Better now that you're here, darling.”

And Jack's going to have to do something drastic if Charles keeps this shit up.

But before Jack can retaliate, escalate, they're interrupted by tittering laughter.

“Aren't they just the cutest?” one of the rich ladies coos.

There's general agreement amongst the ladies. “And so fashionable,” one of them says, giving Jack's tennis outfit a once-over.

“Perks of the job darling,” Jack says lightly.

And then one of them – the leader, if the obscene amount of designer and diamonds she's wearing – says, “You both simply must come to my bachelorette party.” She studies her nails faux casually. “It's going to be a real rager.”

This is exactly the kind of thing Charles has been waiting for since Max assigned him this stupid job. And getting on Max's good side is infinitely preferable to even her neutral regard. So Charles'll be damned if he lets it slip through his fingers – even if he has to play some boring bitch's gay best friend for a whole night.

He tips his fruity umbrella drink in her direction and looks at her over the salted rim. “Sounds like my kind of party.”

Jack resigns himself to a night of drunken socialites vomiting in the back of a limo. “We'll be there, darling. Never fear.”

It'll be an opportunity to move some blow, if nothing else.


	6. In Which Anne Has a Lovely Night In And Jack Has a Terrible (But Productive) Night Out

Anne glares the last of the workmen out the door, grinning to herself at his wary backward glances even when he's halfway down the block.

It's not that she doesn't appreciate the work they've done – the house looks nice, all fixed up. Jack's own taste in décor is a lot better than the previous owners's, even in Anne's barely invested opinion. No one deserves to be subjected to a carpeted bathroom, no matter how posh they are.

Though even with all the stupid frippery ripped out there's still plenty of shit to be done around the place. Half the rooms are completely empty, even with how much furniture buying Jack's been doing. But Anne's slept a lot worse places than a double bed in an otherwise unfurnished bedroom, so she sure ain't fucking complaining about the lack of amenities. It's practically palatial compared to their previous squat. And a hell of a lot less rat infested.

Though she's looking forward to having some peace and fucking quiet around the place, even if it's just for a night. Jack and Charles are out at some rich bitch's bachelorette party of all things, so it's just her and Mary and Max sitting in the cavernous “informal parlor” eating shitty pizza and watching bad TV. But it's kinda exactly the thing she's needed after the whirlwind bullshit insanity of the past two months.

Cuz it ain't that she don't love Jack with all her heart. The two of them are partners till they're put in the fucking ground. But he's kinda high strung. A perfectionist in everything he does, including the whole redecorating scheme.

Frankly, Anne can't be arsed to form an opinion on shit like curtain fabric or sofa style or whatever the fuck else Jack is losing his shit over. So she and Chaz have mostly been relegated to demolition and then repainting and cleaning, along with Mary, when Charles ain't out pretending to be Jack's boytoy.

But Jack cares about all that shit, more than seems reasonable to Anne. And he and Mary and Max have had all too fucking many ideas about how to make sure the house looks like it needs to so that they're seen as respectable – but not _too_ respectable – in their roles as rich idiots. Idiots with money power and no idea how to use it. Manipulable, so that they can manipulate their chosen marks.

Which she knows is important. They can't be low-class street toughs anymore, not and expect to work in the circles Max wants them to join. Which is why Anne had agreed to pose as Jack's personal assistant. She gets to watch his back while appearing semi-respectable.

But with Max giving Jack the job of conning the counselor – the first stage in them taking over the London criminal empire Lord Hamilton had worked so long to build before Flint had torn it down in a single week - Jack's been running himself ragged at that _and_ at making sure the house turns out just right. And him being anxious has made him snappish and frazzled. And frankly, it's been doing Anne's fucking head in. So she's looking forward to a night of just not fucking dealing with that shit.

And so she'd talked Mary and Max into this little party – not that it had taken much convincing. And she'd stolen Charles's weed – not that it was all that well hidden, not from someone like her. And when whatever stupid action movie they'd been half watching is over, Anne chivies them all out onto the balcony to smoke up.

It's pretty fun, looking out at all the other posh houses, laughing at all the posh people weaving drunkenly along the street. Not that they're in much better shape themselves. But at least they're sitting down for their bouts of crossfaded giggling.

Though eventually it gets too cold to keep sitting outside. And the crowds of drunk partiers have slowed to a trickle and then disappeared completely. There'll probably be another round near dawn, but Anne ain't staying out in the cold to wait for that.

So they all head back inside and Mary wants to try out the fancy new bathtub that's big enough for a whole orgy of people, cuz apparently that's what rich people have in their bathrooms. And Max says she wants to take a bath too. And Anne's half asleep and doesn't particularly fucking care what they do as long as she can keep this floaty, relaxed feeling.

And it is nice, sinking into the hot water that's been filled with some kind of perfumey, glittery foam courtesy of one of Jack's myriad bath supplies. It's even nicer sinking back against Max's body, completely relaxed. Held by her as she pets Anne's hair with her soft hands, scratching at Anne's scalp with her short, manicured nails. So different from Anne's own hands, rough and paint stained and a little cut up from demolishing a house.

And then Anne feels the soft pad of Max's thumb press against her clit. She grinds lazily against the pressure.

“That feel good, mon cheri?” Max whispers into her ear.

Anne tilts her chin and looks dazedly up at her. Hums in pleasure and sinks deeper into Max's arms.

Across the bath, Mary's own hand has disappeared beneath the water. Anne grins at her, sly and contented, and spreads her legs wider.

She hadn't really thought about having sex tonight, or with Mary involved. But she ain't opposed to the idea - Anne ain't exactly one to be shy or anything, not anymore. And it feels right to do this. An extension of the rest of the slow, lazy, relaxed feeling that suffuses her. An extension of the camaraderie – the sense of family - she feels with Jack and Charles and now Mary.

After the bath, they all hose the glitter off in the equally large and ostentatious shower Jack's character of a nouveau rich fop had insisted on. And then they all brush their teeth at the ridiculous his and hers vanity and Anne drinks a big glass of water because this is too nice to spoil with a hangover tomorrow. And then they all put on pajamas – Max borrowing one of Anne's t-shirts, which is real fucking nice, even if she's gonna stretch out the fabric with her tits – and they go to sleep in Anne's bed, with its clean, cool sheets and warm quilt and new pillows. And that all feels right too.

* * *

The bachelorette party is going about as Jack had expected, which is to say pretty fucking terribly. What Claudette apparently meant by a rager is that they're going to every too-expensive only slightly seedy nightclub in London to drink luridly colored cocktails and do lines of expensive blow. Which has the upside of allowing Jack to inform some of his higher-class pushers of the event and position them strategically along the party limo's route and they make a considerable pile of cash that way, even with himself and Charles abstaining.

In fact, since he and Chaz are technically on the job, they aren't drinking much either. Their brightly colored drinks little more than seltzer water and fruit juice after a quick word to the bartender when they buy the girls the first round. Because nothing makes pumping people for information easier than being the only sober person in the group. And they do get some useful intel in terms of who's fucking who and who's doing shady backroom deals with who and who's doing both. Invaluable in terms of both blackmail material and understanding the complex web of high-society relationships they're trying to enter into.

And, even more fortuitously, one of the gaggle of bridesmaids owns a monstrously upscale and “avant garde” art gallery and she'd drunkenly bragged about how much good press Jack could get by hosting a fashion show there. Which means that she thinks she could get good press through that little arrangement. But if Jack is to actually make a half believable pretense at being a fashion designer – a career chosen for him since it would allow him to travel all over the world with little fuss, but one less well regulated than a more traditional profession – he's got to start somewhere. And some rich “artiste” want-to-be's trendy rich-person art gallary isn't a bad place to start.

But that's something to be discussed with Max at a later date - and a more conducive time than three in the fucking morning from the back of a limo speeding towards, he's not sure actually. Somewhere expensive and tawdry, presumably.

They are, in fact, heading to a strip club. An all male one, of course. Which fair enough, the blushing bride-to-be's fiance is presumably doing a very similar thing tonight. And it's not that Jack can't appreciate oiled up, scantily clad men gyrating to heavy club pop.

And he's certainly worked enough corners as a pusher to have lost any sort of judgment or, or snootiness about sex workers. It's just that all the girls with them are treating it like some sort of exotic safari or something. Ogling the dancers in a way that's titillated, scandalized.

And if Jack is noticing, then surely all the dancers are as well. It's uncomfortable to be associated with them, to be painted with that same brush. He wants to leave, or at least move to a different table. Divorce himself from the group – and from his sudden, terrible understanding that this is what he is to them, too.

The understanding that he and Charles – who's currently getting a lap dance from a grinning young man, completely unaware of Jack's own inner turmoil – they're exotic things to be ogled at as well.

Understood to be foreign, rightfully understood to be lower class. They don't fit into the effortlessly glamorous lifestyle of the wealthy and titled. Outsiders, chosen to attend this little party because of their perceived danger and lack of refinement.

Which is fine. All of this is exactly what Jack had been gunning for, in terms of outside perception. He doesn't want to actually pass as a member of the upper crust. Just someone they'll deign to let walk among them.

Someone they will underestimate – and to their detriment.

But it doesn't exactly make it any easier to take, is the thing. Jack wants recognition for his achievements. For people to look at him and see what he's accomplished, despite the way the deck has been stacked against him since birth. Jack burns with the desire to be seen for – to be judged by - his merits and his merits alone.

And apparently Charles has noticed something is up, because he's leering in Jack's direction. And when he sees he's caught Jack's eye, he says, “Jealous that someone other than you is sitting on my dick, Jack?” And he voices it as a challenge.

But what he's really doing is giving Jack an out. A way to get them both out of there without it looking like anything is wrong. Without them losing their stupid, sex-obsessed, party boy facade.

It's masterful. And ultimately unnecessary, because Jack is a professional con and more than able to put his feelings on the back burner for a job.

But he will take the support that Charles is offering him another way.

“Never, darling. I know there's always room for me right... here.” He perches on Charles's broad thigh and leans into the hand that curls protectively around his hip.

If he can't have Anne here to watch his back, Charles is the next best thing.


End file.
